


the waves have come

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Catharsis, Dancing, Freakytits Mention, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Music, One Shot, Purple Prose, Reflection, Season/Series 04, Self-Discovery, Self-Loathing, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera Bennett reflects on the governorship, the burden of working in corrections, and all that’s been lost. Rather than succumbing to the hefty toll, Vera shakes it off with a little dance and some music in the sanctity of her own home.[Takes place after 04x01: First Blood.]
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	the waves have come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWentworthWordsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWentworthWordsmith/gifts).



> This is a present for my good friend and wordsmith extraordinaire. I hope you're enjoying the day with a glorious walk along the shore. I'm beyond grateful for the friendship we share. You've exposed me to abundant knowledge, beautiful literature, and the sanctity of nature. I wrote this with you in mind, Jane! I’ve plugged in quite a few references to Virginia Woolf and T.S. Eliot; I hope you enjoy the allusions. Happiest of birthdays to you. :)
> 
> Title is taken from the Chelsea Wolfe song of the same name.
> 
> Thank you, dear friend, for all the music and poetry you create. x

The Divinyls blare loud enough for her to hear the steady pulse of the music.

Doyle and Westfall tangle together in a warm embrace, picturesque and everything Vera Bennett has ever craved in her fairytale visions. Round and round they spin with cheeky grins on their faces. A part of her heart sings despite the hardened expression she dons. How many times had she seen herself in a similar dance? Are her eyes really that green? 

She watches for a fleeting moment with a hardened glint in her eye. Governor Bennett refrains from making enemies out of others.

Could she have ever fallen for Doyle’s roguish charm? Unlikely! 

No, no, she imagines herself with Joan - what could have been had she not stormed out of her sterile flat after watching Joan recoil so fiercely, clutching the napkin for dear life. Damn her and her foolish daydreams, her cursed longings. 

The strain in her shoulders suggests a great and terrible rust. She craves a love like that, embracing between bookshelves and dancing in the privacy of their living quarters.

_They looked happy._

Maybe that is what she wants. Vera certainly wants _more_ , perhaps even someone to share her home with. All she desires is for someone to serve her a nice glass of wine, a home-cooked meal, and choose a movie to snuggle down to. Or maybe she simply wants to be able to stand on her own and revel in it.

Gaping, her mouth falls open and closed like a goldfish gasping for breath. Vera retreats to her car. Nimble fingers work to loosen her scarf. Unrighteous anger courses through her. Juvenile thoughts shake her. She has a prison to run and still, her petty feelings threaten to overrule her. She thinks of Joan, she thinks about the rejection professed by her hand during an ill-fated dinner date. Her affirmation band digs into her skin.

With just a hint of resentment, Vera white-knuckles the steering wheel to take the high road home. At times, Governor Bennett struggles to return. There’s no point in waiting around for someone to come save her, to rescue her from some fabled dragon. The lonely walk down her halls is no different from the place of the condemned in Wentworth. Unable to squash her sense of duty, now is the time to be silent, to be alone, to reflect.

Day in and day out, she handles hollow women. It’s alright to bend, to break a little. It’s all a part of the Kafkaesque metamorphosis.

In solitude, severity melts away. Her life won’t whirl down the drain. She’ll stand as strong as a sail against the billowing wind. This retreat into seclusion ought to do her some good. Serpents have and will nest in this house; Jake vows to make his move in the weeks to come. The Baba Yaga’s gone up and left. No more Jacs Holt, no more Mum, no more Meg Ryan. Somehow, the impermanence of her role shakes her to the core.

A chill meanders through the barren home she attempts to pour life into. Paintings of sunsets and photographs of floral arrangements adorn the walls. She pulls the bobby-pins from her hair to alleviate the tension her screaming scalp has endured. The dent in her hair is a testament to the strain from work. Resigned to habit, she checks the locks three times over. Governor Bennett lowers her taut bun into a loose ponytail. 

Accustomed to being let down, the evenings away from prison are the loneliest of all. Vera brands herself a bloody liability, unable to forget the prison riot. Caught in a sea of self-loathing, she plucks at the band clinging to her scrawny wrist. Red-rimmed eyes fall out of focus. She removes the elastic to quell fiddle-string nerves. It leaves an angry welt behind. Vinegar Tits is sick of others telling her how to feel, how to act, how to think.

To distract her mind, she slips into a more comfortable number. Quick to shed herself of the uniform after her hazardous day, she still feels the weight of the crowns perched atop her shoulders. She scratches at her bare skin, slipping out of her bra and into a grey single and cotton robe showcasing threadbare sleeves, and a pair of beige Uggs to compliment her aching soles. Still, her backbone creaks. She smells of lavender rather than vinegar and soiled intentions.

On the way back, she’s reminded of the neglected copy of Dostoevsky’s _Demons_ \- a gift from her old mentor - collects dust under the coffee table. She couldn’t bear the thought of finishing it. The ghost of Joan’s influence hangs over her. Already, the presence of Ferguson will goad her to resort to old snooping habits, fishing for letters and reading aloud information not privy to her.

From the window, she sneaks a peek at her bountiful garden. She has adorned this house she rebuilt with little pieces of herself.

She had looked to a quiet-voiced elder for reason, for Virgil to guide her through constant Hell. The wolf lurks in her courtyard, destined to protection within a short period of time. What would happen once Ferguson entered Wentworth? She needs to keep a steady head and Lord knows she tries.

Joan taught her the value of T.S. Eliot and Virginia Woolf. While she doesn’t appreciate poetry in the way her mentor did, she values the aesthetics of pretty lyrics, music, and her harlequin paperback romances. She knows that Joan looked most beautiful in the early hours of morning, a book in her lap, her hair flowing freely.

Once, there had been a time when she was bright-eyed and eager. A glimmer of the young woman she used to be, naught but a shitkicker ‘til Ferguson recognized her plasticity, scooped her up, and shaped her into something new. She swallows though the lump in her throat sticks. Vera needs to put an end to this self-destructive warpath.

Fully aware that she’ll be deprived of a decent night’s rest, she sets her coffee machine for tomorrow at 5 AM. Tonight, Vera washes down her regrets with a swig of wine. Briefly, she thinks of the bottle of red shared with Miss Westfall the other day for an impromptu debrief, a coveted moment between friends.

Consumed by the stillness of the night, Vera uncorks Pinot Grigio and reaches for a crystal chalice hidden in the cupboard among her collection of mugs. Condensation sweats as the rivulets venture down to succumb to gravity’s pull. Before having a seat in her dimly lit, cozy little kitchen, Vera switches on the radio to interrupt the steady stream of consciousness she experiences. There are no more fire sermons, only an amalgamation of contemporary songs that blend and bleed together.

Wormed into her heart, drilled into her head, so quick to tear herself apart, shame and guilt churn her stomach. Endless worries continue to nip away at her. A dull pounding within her chest stirs her upright. Spindly fingers venture up the stem of her too-full glass. She cannot convey her wants and needs so she swallows them. There is no drinking to forget, only to remember.

In becoming her own person, is the prison palace not her inheritance? 

Is she like Ferguson or is she just someone looking to become something?

Fettered by her decisions, the choices she made, Vera glides along the coast of guaranteed annihilation. Stewing in her misery, she punishes herself by reflecting on the past, her story _has_ to become her own. In the shadow of Joan’s authoritative legacy, revelations come in waves, the ebb and flow, the sacred art of drowning in the unfathomable unknown. There’s a strength derived from perfect solitude; perhaps this rivaled Joan’s existence after Jianna. Perhaps not. She was one hell of a tabula rasa in response to Ferguson’s divine strokes.

In the experience described as melymbrosia, she takes another sip of her drink.

If she weren’t so determined to prove herself, then she would resign. There’s a fighting spirit in her. So tangled up inside her head, there must be a lighthouse in sight.

With a case of Burnt Norton blues, corrections takes too many bites out of her

Already, the women threaten her power, her position.

_Am I worthy?_

Bleary-eyed, she rests her head in her hands. Always, she feels the pain and feels too much. She wipes tears and snot away with her sleeve. It’s ugly and it’s messy. How pathetic she must look from the window of her lonely home. The heel of her palm digs into her right eye before sliding up to her pulsing temple. Shadowed by Joan Ferguson’s monumental legacy, wouldn’t it be nice to not dwell on her tumultuous past with the Devil just once? 

This is the cost of feeling too much.

Vera drowns herself in the countless unspoken possibilities. In corrections, you need to curb your heart, but she’s unable to do just that. Melancholy takes a toll. Why not let it all out and shake it out? 

Here she is, ruminating on the other side of the bars. Her shoulders shudder and convulse. Feeling ashamed and inexplicably bound to Joan, the familiar pang and taste of regret follows. Enough of drumming her fingers against the table. Having left the firebird suite, Vera must cease her mourning.

_Just get over yourself, Vera._

Neglecting the ache in her joints, the tug in her soul, she hears the radio belt out another tune on yet another mundane Saturday night. At first, there’s no dancing, no singing, only somber reflection. She stresses her lamentations in her isolation tank. Self-pity isn’t very becoming so she frees herself of that deathly grip. Vera Bennett sits at the round table, covered by a paisley cloth, until restlessness shakes her. Taking a deep breath, she sheds herself of negativity, as if it’s a second skin. She sweeps away the tide of that sad, sorry state. 

No more burying her face into her hands. The radio crackles while playing an upbeat ballad. These aren’t the four quartets supplying background ambiance.

Oh, she bore witness to many true colors while working in corrections. Vera can’t paint herself innocent with the way she intends to rule. To some extent, the job remains ceremonial - don the crowns, slot the inmates for insubordination, watch the screws turn on one another; so it goes. Still, to this day, doubt gnaws away at Vera’s hunched and worried frame. All these consuming thoughts spin in circles. The personal display is enough to snap her out of her penchant for wallowing. She rises after a particularly sharp exhale, the tail of her robe quivering in delight.

The radio doesn’t quite capture her attention like the record player that’s an antique find. She switches off the former in favor of the latter. This beloved record player was an investment for herself - oh, how she often loathes to do anything for herself. 

Vera had always felt a connection to the sea, perhaps sharing in the experience of shedding salty tears. She brushes the lone tear away and fishes out her record of Heart's _Alone_. There’s a light film of dust on the cover, which she wipes off with her knuckles. She puts the record on and listens to the opening. Eventually, her body rocks from side to side, back and forth, until she increases her speed to match the tempo, the instrumentals, and the chorus.

The dance in solitude distracts in a brazen attempt to heal – to soothe – the fractures within. Sauntering to the beat of her own drum, she orchestrates some movie-choreographed rhythm. Really, she's just jumping around the den, but no one needs to know. In this way, it’s freeing to let go. To let loose. 

Her feet pick up the pace to make her body buoyant. She must look ridiculous swaying in an empty room, in her house that she redecorated after Mum’s passing. She doesn’t know what she’s doing and that’s okay. With closed eyes, she loses herself to the music. For once in her paranoid life, it doesn’t matter if she resembles a fool.

No longer resigned to her lot, it’s freeing to dance to the beat of her own drum. Vera moves alone, the only way she knows. The death of the moth represents much to overcome. Seeking catharsis, she attunes to the imaginary waves that surge forward and rush out. Vera finds her inner self, what was lost to her and now found. Here she is, dancing like some maenad sailing towards her glorious future. It’s a moment of simply being. 

Would she feel comforted in the embrace of another? 

Even in a crowded room, Vera is the type to feel alone. Epiphany leads to release. She values her independence. Covets her newly found freedom.

To be this jaded, the general feeling of malaise festers and grows before simmering away entirely. She doesn’t marinate in her spite anymore for the song soothes her worn spirit. Wistful regret vanishes. With her arm crooked, hand upon her back, her fingers delicately probe the indentation of her spine. The life of music flows through her now.

Has she ever been herself? Here and now, she finds who she’s meant to be. Twirling in a half circle around the room, Vera doesn’t wish to be a shell of a woman, plastic and malleable to echo her mother’s cutting remarks. She’s more than that. She hums along, suddenly soothed and seemingly lost to the music.

For once, she learns how to stop beating herself up. In a room of her own, her den is warm and alive, tinges of yellow promising sunshine rather than the eternal sliver of night. The succulents, geraniums, and all matter of potted plants surge with vitality.

Rejuvenated, she finishes her dance with open eyes and a smile cast upon her face.

**Author's Note:**

> Some tunes I listened to while writing this:  
> BITWVLF - Pity Party: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mon-3uArEbo  
> Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here - 65daysofstatic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZbOvE996hY  
> Alone - Heart: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzLlCQQegL0  
> if wishes were catholics – Saltillo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ENgjkuq1rI  
> And Silent Hill 2's OST: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHz8_EDDpiw


End file.
